


Showing Skin

by theprydonian_archivist



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Episode: s03e12 The Sound of Drums, Episode: s03e13 Last of the Time Lords, Kinks, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Year That Never Was
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-03
Updated: 2011-05-03
Packaged: 2018-07-15 01:12:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7199414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprydonian_archivist/pseuds/theprydonian_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gallifreyans have a thing about necks - and the Master is only too happy to take advantage of this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Showing Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Prydonian](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Prydonian). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [The Prydonian collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/theprydonian/profile).

The Master knew none of the pathetic human beings he’d hired on as lackeys would notice this particular quirk of his.  So their charming, powerful employer had a few tics – so what?  Perhaps he had perpetually stiff shoulders, or wanted to keep limber.  Perhaps it helped him focus.  Mr. Saxon had a great deal on his mind these days, what with his impending election (everyone knew he’d win), and if he needed to roll his head, crack his shoulders now and then to keep on his game, who were they to question?

The Master liked to think the Doctor might catch it on his promotional tapes, later on.  He was bound to show up soon, any day now, and if the Master knew him – and _oh,_ how he knew him – that meddling bastard would soak up every bit of information he could get before deciding how to handle the situation.  Inevitably, he’d do something foolish and rash, even with hours – days, even – of preparation, and this time there wasn’t a thing he could do.  

The Master liked to think that in his hunger for images of his face the Doctor would catch that subtle movement and know immediately what he was up to.  Probably, he’d have to hide his reaction from his pet freak and that idiot human girl – have to scrunch his features into some ridiculous expression to fight off a rise of heat, the impulse to slide his tongue along his teeth.  _That_ was a handy tell, and just thinking about it send shivers of secret delight down the Master’s spine.

It was a little bit like the time they’d visited Momoka, a planet terraformed thousands of years beyond this Earth century specifically for the cultivation of peach and cherry trees.  New New Earth’s denizens of old Japanese origin had colonized the place, and it’d developed a reputation for ceremony and simple, pleasing aesthetics.  They’d been young then, in their first regeneration, and the Doctor had been desperately trying to mend the rift in their friendship he’d caused by stealing away in a junkyard TARDIS without him.  This was before the Master had taken those first steps to shatter their boyhood alliance forever, entertaining the Doctor’s advances with an edge of wounded pride.

The inhabitants of Momoka’s warmer regions wore traditional light, flowing garments similar to Old Japan’s Yukatas.  Normally, these summer coats had high, structured collars, not unlike those worn by stodgy Gallifreyans trying to conceal the indecent expanse of skin on the backs of their necks.  The Doctor had been quite taken to the fashion, picking up a half-dozen to take along with him when they left.  The first few days, the Master had worn the most plain styles, all stark black, having already developed a preference for simple, dark fabrics.

Their third night out he’d surprised the Doctor with a decidedly different sort of coat.  This one had been silk, dark and opulent, chased with intricate designs hand-embroidered in an even darker thread so that the patterns only became apparent when they caught the light.  Further, the back of the coat dropped down a few inches below his neck rather than sitting high in a stiff collar, displaying every inch of the soft, pale skin proper Gallifreyans found both obscene and arousing.  His dark hair had grown out into a curly, boyish mop, brushing gently against the nape of his neck, mimicking the rather more coarse curls below his navel.  

When he’d come out to join the Doctor, skin glowing from the warm, tropical air, eyes narrowed in a sly squint of anticipatory glee, he’d seen the reactions flit across the other Time Lord’s face in predictable succession: shock, embarrassment, amusement, lust.  The Doctor had given him a plaintive look, nodded ever so slightly towards the bedroom they’d shared, but the Master had simply shook his head and gone for the door, turning his back – and bared neck – to his exceedingly hot and bothered lover.

The Doctor had gotten a small measure of revenge, though.  He’d spent the entire evening with his fingers tracing the ridges of the Master’s spine, closing like a whisper against the juncture of his shoulder and neck.  At every opportunity he laid a hand against his exposed flesh, and once he’d gotten over his initial gut impulse of want, he managed an enviable poker face.  By the time they headed back to their shared bungalow, it was the Master who was most eager to shed his alluring coat and roll the Doctor into the ocean-scented sheets.

This time he’d forgone such overt displays in favor of something much more subtle but no less obscene.  Each time he laid his head back and pressed the sensitive skin of his neck to his stiff, starched collar it sent a bolt of delicious heat straight through him.  He’d had to exercise extreme restraint to avoid any embarrassing situations in public – at times it was too much to resist, especially considering the humans’ ignorance.  

Now, though, he was alone, save for the small camera perched atop his computer recording his every movement.  It was a private feed, highly restricted and coded, something the Doctor might find in his search if he was very thorough.  Not a single human on this whole wretched planet had the capability to find it, and that was good, for the Master was being _very_ obvious indeed. 

He stretched like a cat in his desk chair, rolled his head back and groaned deep in his chest as the starched edge of his collar scraped against the back of his neck.  His cock strained eagerly against his pressed slacks, and he knew he’d need them dry-cleaned.  When he stroked his fingers against the taut fabric he felt a slight dampness, shuddered visibly with pleasure as he nudged his thumb against the head of his cock.

“Oh, I _love_ it when you try and save the world,” he purred, enjoying the rich, seductive depth of his new voice.  “It always ends in sex, somehow.  By this time you’ll be up to your elbows in schemes to try and stop me, but at the back of your mind you’ll be thinking about _this_ , won’t you?”

He tilted his head to the side, eyes closed in bliss as his shirt collar caught the cords of his neck.

“We’ll see if we can’t work some… _alone_ time into this little game,” he murmured, locking eyes with the camera – with the Doctor, in a few days’ time.  “I’m sure you’d like that.”

He lay his head back once more, exposing the pale column of his throat, the prominence of his adam’s apple, the flutter of his pulse.  

“Come and get me, Doctor.”


End file.
